


A Fine Line (Between Love and Hate)

by aqua_moon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - Human, Bisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Bullying, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, M/M, Professor Aziraphale (Good Omens), Single Parents, Slow Burn, Tattoo Artist Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24492820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqua_moon/pseuds/aqua_moon
Summary: Considering the first words Aziraphale ever spoke to him were insulting his son’s name, Aziraphale should be easy to hate.So why did Crowley have to constantly remind himself that they were enemies?It was as if somehow, without his knowledge or permission, the burning resentment had melted away. The barbed words they hurled at each other had softened into banter and rather than feeling annoyed, Crowley walked away from their encounters feeling lighter.If he'd only known… there is such a fine line between love and hate.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 138
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. August

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the start to Good AUmens!  
> I've been working on this story for awhile and I'm very excited to finally share it!  
> My prompt was Single Parents so please enjoy some chaotic dads trying their best 
> 
> Head over to the collection for more AU goodness!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Faye for betaing this chapter

Crowley gripped the steering wheel, taking deep, meditative breaths while repeating, ‘it’ll be fine’ in his head like a mantra. Affirmations and manifesting the reality you want or some shit like that. The truth was, he would rather eat nails than be here. There was a very long list of to-dos now that they'd moved to a new city and an even longer list of things he dreaded doing. Attending a PTA meeting was at the tippy-top of both lists. He was already seven minutes late however, so he had to cut the internal pep talk short and hustle into the building. 

He walked down the bland, beige hallway, bullshit inspirational posters on the walls and a stickiness to the floor that seemed universal of all middle schools. It was both exactly what he’d expected and yet somehow so much worse in person than anything his very pessimistic mind could think up. In all his years, he’d never imagined his life would turn out like this: a single father trying to raise a semi-stable kid while balancing his dream job with things like parent teacher conferences and band practice. It didn’t quite fit into his rockstar aesthetic he’d always imagined for himself. It was so far off from his dreams of fame and being cool-- at least at twenty years old, that’s what he’d thought were the most important and impressive things a person could be. 

Oh how life changes you. 

Those dreams had been laid to rest a long time ago, the reality of life and parenthood taking precedence over farfetched fantasies. Now he was just some middle-aged man who wore too much black and had too many tattoos who was currently attending a PTA meeting at a middle school; dressed to depress so he could discuss fundraisers with suburban housewives. 

Maybe he was just a self-fulfilling prophecy or maybe it was because nothing about tattoos and leather screamed _I volunteer for the carpool_ , but Crowley had had a tenuous relationship with other parents all of Warlock’s life. He didn’t fit in with their sensible minivans and more sensible accounting careers and everyone knew it. He’d forever be stuck in limbo, too anxious and responsible to match his whole vibe but still perceived as too wild to fit in with the other parents. He’d actually considered trying to tone down his whole look, at least for this first meeting. Maybe even wear long sleeves to hide his full tattoo sleeves, but it was August and even in windy city of Chicago it was hot as fuck so that wasn’t happening. What would be the point anyway? His piercings were enough to set people on edge, not to mention his little snake tattoo on his face. His general ‘fuck you’ demeanor didn’t help either. Maybe he should consider working on that…. nah, not worth it. 

So here he was, in his favorite ripped jeans, tight as sin and showed off peeks of his leg tattoos, and a Queen tee shirt that put his sleeves on full display. If he wasn’t going to hide who he really was, might as well lean into it. Better to find out early who was a judgemental asshole in the group, no better way to weed them out than to show up looking like a prat. 

He kept his dark glasses on like a safety blanket, hiding his nerves and looking damn cool while doing it. While he might play the part of a self assured, ‘i’m too cool for this’ person on the outside, even he couldn’t lie to himself about how not self assured he truly was. It felt like the first day of school all over again and here he was trying to find a table to sit at for lunch. It didn’t matter though, he felt how the whole room of people seemed to seize up, one collective breath being held as they took in his appearance. Not even the glasses were a comfort then.

He was doing this for Warlock. He could put up with this for Warlock. He reminded himself as he ignored the stares and made his way to the refreshments table, a sad assortment of prepackaged cookies and lukewarm coffee. He grabbed a plastic cup and filled it from the water cooler, praying it would turn to vodka before it reached his lips. 

No such luck. 

When he’d done this before, he’d had Dagon beside him, equally tattooed and intimidating, but there was a comfort in having someone to share the burden with. It had been them against the world, or PTA moms, and it had been easier to stand up under the weight of their scrutiny when he had a hand to hold. That was a long time ago though and Dagon had moved on with her life, leaving Crowley and Warlock to fend for themselves. She wasn’t ready to let go of the lifestyle; she hadn’t been ready to be a mom. She’d tried, for years she tried, but it was never enough and now Crowley was left with the pieces, Crowley was left to hold it all together by himself. 

Despite his anxiety, Crowley could handle the stares, the judgement, the stage whispers behind polite smiles. It would have been fine, he would have been happy enough if they had all just left him alone. He could sulk in the corner, nursing he glass of not-vodka and wait for this stupid meeting to start because then it could finally end and he could go home and drink real vodka and wash away their stares of disapproval. Unfortunately, he realized he was not going to be left in his corner as a blond woman with a severe haircut, wispy bangs in the front and short and spiked with product in the back, made a bee-line for him. 

“Hi there, this is your first time? I’m Karen, I'm the president of the Parent Teacher Organization here.” 

“Hi,” Crowley said, taking a quick, nervous sip from his cup. 

“You must be a new parent! We try to maintain connections with the local elementary schools here but I would have remembered you,” She made a flourish at him as if that explained everything and then laughed and laughed. Crowley grimaced, her laugh was so fake it was painful to listen to, like a hyena going into heat. He knew it was part of her job to make parents feel welcome but did she have to be so plastic about it? 

“Yep, just moved to town,” Crowley answered after too long of a pause. He drained his water and cursed under his breath, now he had nothing to fidget with. She continued to babble at him, telling him about the district and the ‘exciting events’ that were coming up. He needed only to nod occasionally and that was all the encouragement she needed to continue. 

“So will we get to meet Mrs. Crowley?” Karen asked.

Crowley wanted to roll his eyes. He wanted to say ‘no’ and leave her guessing. He wanted her to stay out of his damn business. Instead, Crowley took the high-ish road and answered honestly. “No, we’re divorced.”

“Oh that’s too bad. But you must meet our Aziraphale! He’s a single father as well!” She all but dragged him across the room and shoved him in front of a man who he assumed was “Aziraphale”. 

Crowley didn’t know what he expected a man named Aziraphale to look like; however, when Crowley’s eyes met Aziraphale’s, he felt an odd sense of ‘of course’. It all made sense, as if the name had been made for him. The man was soft in the best sense of the word, and dressed in brown slacks and a cream cardigan, a bit old fashioned but cut to fit him and obviously quality fabrics. His whispy curls were so blond they were practically white. He looks bookish and educated and… dapper. 

That was the word. He looked dapper. And far too dressy for a PTA meeting held in the school gymnasium. 

“Umm… hi?” Crowley said, glancing over to see Karen marching away to harass someone else. Did she really just dump him in front of this man and then walk away?

“Hello? Are you new?” Aziraphale patted the corners of his mouth for crumbs like he was dining with the queen and Crowley couldn’t help the little smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

“Yeah, just moved to the area. My son, Warlock, is going into the 8rd grade,” Crowley answered, finding that sharing information about his life was far easier to do with this Aziraphale than it had been with Karen. Perhaps because he looked genuinely interested and engaged in conversation rather than circling him like a hungry shark.

“Oh, so is my Adam! I’ll have to tell him to look out for his new classmate. Warlock? What a,” He paused and Crowley bristled, “ _interesting_ name.” 

“Say’s _Aziraphale_?” Crowley snapped, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He’d always been a bit sensitive to people commenting on Warlock’s name. It was a family name and one to be proud of, even if it wasn’t as common as Adam. He didn’t take kindly to people sneering at it. 

The warmth and openness vanished from Aziraphale’s face, freezing into a mask of polite indifference. “Yes, well… what is it you do?” 

“I’m a tattoo artist,” Crowley answered, wanting to roll his eyes at the way Aziraphale seemed to close off even more. People had such weird perceptions of what a tattoo artist was like, most of their stereotypes involving drugs and prison. People didn’t expect to meet a tattoo artist at their PTA meeting and their reactions would be comical if they weren’t so insulting. 

“Oh how… darling.” 

_Darling_? Years of art school and slaving away as an apprentice and a whole leg sleeve of shitty tattoos he’d done to practice on himself and this man thinks it’s darling? Every muscle in his body tensed with righteous indignation. 

“And you?” He asked through gritted teeth.

“I’m a professor. History,” Aziraphale replied, the pride and pomp in his tone was palatable and it made Crowley want to hit something. He could feel the judgement, the self satisfaction and superiority complex rolling off the man. Aziraphale was a professor, he was educated and smart and soooo much better and more important than Crowley. 

He took back every neutral word he’d thought about Aziraphale. He wasn’t dapper at all. He was stuffy and boring and _rude_. 

“How quaint,” Crowley all but sneered. 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale tugged at the hem of his sweater and squared his shoulders, “I believe we are starting? A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” He said, turning on his heel and marching away. The leather soles of his wing-tipped shoes made a distinctive snapping sound on the wood gym floor. 

“Stuck up, prick,” Crowley mumbled under his breath as he took a seat in the back, fuming. He wanted this place to be different, for Warlock but also for himself. He wanted this to be a place they could make their home. However, starting over was hard. Crowley wasn’t good at giving people the benefit of the doubt, he had too much life experience for such fluffy nonsense. He hadn’t had high hopes for this meeting, he wasn’t under any disillusion that he’d walk in and bond with some polo-wearing dads over sports or be swapping pound cake recipes with the moms by the end of the meeting. He just wished that things could be… if not easy, at least easier. As usual, that was too much to ask out of life. 

The meeting was as painfully boring as he’d anticipated. Almost worse, considering all the pomp and bureaucracy involved. They insisted on going through a whole laundry list of speeches and presentations, an excuse for Karen and the other board members to compete with each other and validate their self importance. The principal welcomed them to the new school year and gave the usual platitudes about it being the ‘best year ever’ or some garbage. Then Karen took to the podium and droned on for 27 minutes, Crowley timed her, about how excited she was for this school year. The worst part was, she sounded sincere this time. Crowley truly feared how much time she would waste when she had an actual topic to discuss. 

The Treasurer, someone named Gabriel who looked like a linebacker rattled off a few numbers and projections for the year and then Karen was back and talking about the timeline of events. It seemed every month they had a different event going on and parents were expected to volunteer for all of them. 

How awful. 

Crowley wanted to make a decent enough impression though, for Warlock’s sake. That was why he was here and no matter how much he hated it, he needed to stick around and put in some effort. It was an investment into their future, a tangible ‘we’re here and we’re staying’ shout to the universe. 

He just hoped it would be enough.

~~~

“Dad, I’m sick,” Warlock grumbled, adding in a pout to make himself look extra miserable. He shuffled into the living room in his pajamas and Star Wars slippers, he hadn’t quite reached the level of pre-teen where he would think they were lame or childish and Crowley hoarded those little moments of remaining childhood like a dragon.

“Oh really? You’re sick?” Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to continue. “Conveniently the day before school starts?” 

“Daaaaad,” Warlock whined, flopping on the couch beside him and dropping his head in Crowley’s lap. “Feel my forehead, I’m dying.”

“Let me guess, warm cloth held against your forehead?” Crowley asked, placing his hand on Warlock’s forehead as instructed. It was much hotter than any fever could make it. Crowley smiled, feeling a little nostalgic. He couldn’t even remember all the times he’d tried to fake sick himself as a kid. Warlock had a long way to go before this act would be believable and even then, Crowley knew all the tricks; Crowley invented the tricks. 

Warlock whined, flailing on the couch, “I don’t wanna go to a new school!” 

Crowley sighed, running a comforting hand through Warlock’s hair. “I’m sorry, kiddo.”

“I know, I know… new job, new city, new you,” Warlock sighed. They had had this conversation enough times now, they both knew it by heart. It was like an affirmation, maybe if Crowley said it enough times it would come true. Maybe if Crowley said it enough, they’d both become desensitized to how shitty it was. 

“And it still sucks for you,” Crowley sighed. “It might not be as bad as you’re imagining?” But not even Crowley believed it. Middle school was hell, no matter what city. “We can go out after school tomorrow? Get burgers or something, celebrate a successful first day?” 

Warlock huffed, “I’m not a child, you can’t just buy me with food.” 

“How about those sneakers you were begging me for?”

Warlock perked up at that. 

“Ahhh so you can still be bought!” Crowley laughed. 

“Dad,” Warlock frowned. 

“I’m not teasing. Just get through this first week, okay? Then new kicks!” Perhaps it wasn’t the best parenting tactic to bribe your children but whatever worked, right? 

“You’re so old, no one says ‘kicks’ anymore,” Warlock rolled his eyes but his face softened into an almost-smile.

“Yeah well… I’m still the coolest dad at your school,” Crowley laughed. “I think every parent at the PTA meeting last night shopped at the same store. Little khaki cookie cutters.”

“You went to a PTA meeting,” Warlock deadpanned. “You don’t get to claim ‘cool points’.” 

“Rude,” Crowley grumbled. “Who taught you to talk to people like that?”

“You did.”

“Oh right. Well I’d tell you to stop listening to me but that’s probably bad parenting too.” Crowley smiled down at him, wanting to bottle these moments. They were on the cusp of so many changes and Crowley could feel the nostalgia building up inside of him. “Now get to bed, kiddo. You’ve stalled enough.”

Warlock frowned but did as he was told. Crowley poured himself a glass of wine and sent up a prayer to the moon. He wasn’t above bartering with the universe, the almighty… whatever. He’d sell his own soul to the devil if he thought it would work. He just needed this to be okay. He needed Warlock to settle in. The kid had been through enough, he deserved some good in his life. And really, Crowley’s soul was a small price to pay for Warlock’s happiness. 

~~~

The next morning was a whirlwind of activity and anxiety. Crowley dragged himself out of bed early, whipping up some eggs, bacon and toast. 

Brain food and all that. 

By the end of the week Warlock would probably be grabbing cold pop tarts before running out the door but on his first day Crowley wanted to at least attempt to set him up for success. Warlock had gotten out of bed without a struggle, probably too nervous to try to eek out a few more minutes of sleep. The poor kid had spent the better part of an hour trying to decide on an outfit for his first day. He had to look effortlessly casual but cool but not too casual and not like he was trying too hard. It was a delicate balance and apparently Crowley didn’t “understand style”. In the end the kid had settled on the exact outfit Crowley had suggested but he was smart enough not to mention it. Not every battle was worth winning.

Warlock came out in his dark jeans, plain black tee shirt, his doc martin boots waiting by the door. Simple, classic, and a little bit edgy, especially when you’re thirteen. He looked like a little hellion… the teachers were going to absolutely hate him. It made Crowley smile.

“You have to eat something,” Crowley said, dumping a few strips of bacon on a plate. 

“Can I at least have coffee?” Warlock asked as he plopped into a chair at the kitchen table. Crowley frowned but nodded. Teenagers and caffeine didn’t mesh well but he knew how calming a cup of coffee could be so just this once he relented. Warlock grabbed a mug, dumping more creamer than coffee into it and cracking a small smile as he sipped. 

“Food,” Crowley pointed to his plate. “We gotta leave in,” He checked his watch. “Twelve minutes.” Warlock started wolfing down his food and Crowley made himself a coffee in his to-go mug, the real breakfast of champions. “Do you have everything?” 

Warlock grunted in reply. 

“I know, I know. Day one, nothing happens. At least bring a notebook with you? You can pretend to look engaged and doodle or something?” Crowley suggested.

“Fine,” Warlock sighed, dropping his dishes in the sink and heading back to his room. 

“And brush your teeth! Don’t be that kid!” Crowley called after him. 

Crowley slipped on a jacket, grabbing his sketchbook and a few odds and ends he planned to take into the studio after he dropped Warlock off. “Come on! We’re going to be late!” 

“Coming!” Warlock yelled back, rounding the corner with a battered notebook in hand. “Ready.”

Crowley grabbed his keys off the hook, locking the door behind them as they hurried out to the car. It was nothing fancy, an old Kia something or another. He dreaded the day Warlock started driving but at least then he’d be able to pass this beater off on the kid and get a new car for himself. No point in getting something nicer until then. 

Crowley had a few vices and one of them was vanity. He would love to have a flashy car, something fast and gorgeous and black as sin. He’d been allowed to sit behind the wheel of a vintage Bentley once and it was one of the greatest experiences of his life. However, any dreams of fast, expensive cars died the day Warlock was born. 

Spit up and italian leather did not go together. 

Being a single parent, money was tight more often than not and being a tattoo artist meant unstable income. It was far from ideal but they made due. Crowley was more well-known in the tattoo world now than he had been thirteen years ago so they were comfortable enough. Maybe when Warlock was out of the house he could spring for something nice and all his… maybe. 

The ride to school was silent, Warlock a ball of nerves beside him, his knee bouncing out of time with the music. The school wasn’t far from their apartment and in minutes Crowley was pulling into the parking lot, avoiding the caravan of kids being dropped off by the front door. “It’s going to be okay,” Crowley reminded him. 

Warlock sighed. 

“Text me at lunch?” 

“I don’t have anyone to eat lunch with,” Warlock said, his fingers twisted in his pant leg, bunching the fabric.

Crowley winced. “You’ll make friends.” 

“I’m not good at making friends,” Warlock said softer.

“Yeah… you get that from me.” He hated this. He’d always thought parenthood started to get easier as the children grew up. He was an idiot, clearly. “Wanna know what I do?”

“What?” 

“Well... when I walk into a room, I look for someone who looks as equally miserable to be there as me and then we bond over how much we hate being… wherever we are.” 

"That’s terrible advice,” Warlock grumbled. 

“Do not underestimate the bond of mutual hatred,” Crowley said sagely. “That’s why you have an Aunt Bee.” 

“She hates it when you call her that,” Warlock finally smiled. It was small, just a slight muscle twitch on one side, but it was enough.

“She hates everything,” Crowley corrected. “That’s why we are friends. Now go. I’ll park right here after school, okay?”

“Okay,” Warlock took a deep breath before grabbing his notebook and trudging on without a backwards glance. 

“Ahhh to be thirteen and miserable again,” Crowley said to himself. He waited until Warlock disappeared inside the building before pulling away.

~~~

Crowley tried to keep himself calm as he pulled into a parking space in front of the new studio; a simple clean storefront on a busy pedestrian street. Tattoo Eden. All in all it was much classier than his last shop. 

He’d met Eve, the owner, at a convention a few years back and they’d kept in contact. It had been a surprise, but a very welcome one, when she’d offered him a spot in her studio. It was an offer too good to pass up on its own, but it couldn’t have come at a better time either. Crowley was making a name for himself, people were seeking him out personally and it had started to create some tension with other artists at the shop. 

Jealousy was an ugly thing. 

While things hadn’t escalated into anything serious, it made for a stressful and unpleasant work environment. The tattoo industry could be cutthroat and the older, more traditional artists he’d worked with were far less accepting of Crowley’s less than straight lifestyle and the younger demographic he’d drawn into the studio. Apparently they thought the tattoo industry didn’t need younger people who wanted personalized art on their skin, it should just survive another generation of anchors on sailors arms. 

He’d tried to be nonchalant about everything in front of Warlock, downplaying the situation at his old shop and shrugging off any jitters about the new shop but the truth was that it never got easier. Moving to a new place was scary and he was going into this job blind, hoping he was a good fit. 

He grabbed his box stuffed full of ink and guns and a million rolls of grip tape and Saniderm. The shop supplied half the things he was bringing in with him but after years in the industry, he’d grown rather stubborn about what brands he used and he was unwilling to compromise. 

He juggled the box in his hand in order to pull the door open, coming into the waiting room and taking a moment to look around. It was standard as far as tattoo shops went, flash on the wall, artist portfolio books on the table and eclectic art pieces rounding out the whole vibe. What Crowley did really like was how put together it felt. Each artist had their own flash board but everything else in the lobby was intentionally simple, letting the tattoos and art doing the talking. 

“Can I help you?” 

Crowley jerked his eyes to the front counter, finding a woman with long dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses giving him the staredown. She wore a gold hoop in her nose that connected to her ear and she had a smattering of tattoos, all black and grey, across her arms. 

“Hi, sorry. Anthony Crowley,” He said, precariously lifting a knee to balance the box while he stuck a hand out in greeting. 

“Oh! The new artist! Nice to meet you, I’m Anathema.” She shook his hand, offering a polite smile. 

“You too. Eve said I could stop by whenever and start getting set up?” 

“Right,” Anathema said, nodding. “Well let me show you around then.” She waved him to follow as she came around the front desk and into the open area with five neat tattoo stations set up, the walls lined with shelves of ink and various art pieces. “Sorry, it’s a bit early so no one else is in yet. Eve mentioned setting up a dinner or something so you could meet everyone though?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.” 

“Awesome. Well, this is mine,” She pointed to the first station, an antique apothecary cabinet taking up most of the wall with a single picture of a pentagram hanging above it. “I do mandalas and dotwork. On this side is Ligur, he specializes in script. Next to him is Hastur, traditional. This is Eve’s, she does watercolor and in the back there is your spot. That door leads to the bathroom, storage and the sketch table and printer, ya know, the non-sexy part of tattooing.

“I’m sure Eve already told you but you are responsible for your own scheduling but you have to keep the calendar up to date. You do black and grey realism, right?” 

“Yep.”

“Cool. If you bring in your portfolio and some flash, we’ll get it up on the wall. Supplies are all over there in that cabinet, basic cleaning stuff, gloves, masks. If it’s not in there, you gotta bring it yourself.”

Crowley nodded along, it was all pretty standard stuff. It was a nice place though, exposed brick and everything was stainless steel or black. There were a few windows, letting in enough natural light to brighten everything. If they got a few plants in here it would be just Crowley’s style, maybe he’d suggest it once he had a better sense of the place. 

“Eve has your key, she said she’d be in later but Hastur and Ligur don’t have any appointments today so you’ll have to meet them another time. Erik, he’s our apprentice, is supposed to be in later today so if you’re staying awhile you might get to meet him. He’s still pretty green but he’s a good kid and has some wicked sketches. I know he’s interested in black and grey work though so he’s excited to meet you.”

Crowley smiled, “I can’t wait to meet him, to meet everyone.” 

“I think that’s everything?” 

“Yeah, sounds good. Once I get settled maybe you can show me the scheduling system?” He asked. He knew how to use a damn scheduling system but it never hurt to make an excuse to talk with his new coworkers. Good first impression and all that. 

“Yeah, I have a few minutes before my appointment is due to show up. I’ll be up front,” She shrugged but gave him a little smile before she disappeared back into the hallway, leaving Crowley alone. 

After years of working in tattoo shops, the space felt familiar even though he’d never stepped foot inside it before today. The smell of ink and cleaning solution was oddly comforting. He dropped his box on the chair at the station that had been designated as his and started unpacking. Each station had a display shelf for inks, Crowley lined up the little bottles by color, making an ombre rainbow of sorts as his endless shades of gray transitioned from dark to light. He finally emptied out his box, his very expensive guns going in the cupboard before he pulled a lock out of his pocket. He’d been around long enough to know not to be too trusting. 

He looked around again, taking in the quiet. This was his life now, this was the whole reason they had moved. Well… not the only reason but the official one. Unofficially he’d jumped at the chance to put some distance between them and Dagon. Their divorce had been hard on Warlock and the subsequent years of ping ponging between Crowley’s apartment and wherever Dagon was living that week was even harder. Dagon tried, in her own way, but she wasn’t even fit to raise herself, let alone a child. While Crowley couldn’t legally keep her away, he wouldn’t even if he could, for Warlock’s sake, he could do his best to limit their interactions. So he’d nailed down a custody agreement and packed up all their shit. 

He just really hoped it was going to work out. He wanted this to be permanent, to find a community they fit in with and put down roots. Crowley would do just about anything to make that happen. He couldn’t bring himself to uproot Warlock’s life again, so this needed to stick. 

~~~

Crowley pulled into the school parking lot with only seconds to spare. There was already a line of cars waiting by the doors but Crowley pulled into the same space he’d used that morning, waiting for Warlock to come to him. He watched the chaos unfold around him as students poured from the building like ants, swarming the cars. He glanced down the line of cars and his eyes snagged on a certain someone wearing a bowtie. 

Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s lip twitched into a sneer. What a pompous twat. He was standing outside of his car, pacing back and forth as he waited. Crowley rolled his eyes, their kids were in middle school! They weren’t babies any more. He almost felt sorry for Aziraphale’s son, the guy seemed really overbearing. 

Crowley definitely didn’t let out a sigh of relief when he caught sight of Warlock trudging towards the car.

Warlock yanked the door open and crumpled into the passenger's seat. He looked exhausted. Crowley’s chest tightened, something viceral inside him wanted to tear the whole school apart brick by brick for returning his child to him like this. Logically he knew it was the first day at a new school and it was always going to be difficult, no matter what. Logic however, could kiss his ass. 

“That bad, huh?” Crowley finally asked as he eased out of the parking spot and got in the line of cars leaving the school. 

“Burgers. You promised,” Warlock said, pressing his forehead into his knees. 

Fuck.

Crowley knew better than to press, instead he turned the volume up a few clicks, letting the Best of Queen soundtrack filter through the tense air as he drove in silence. He threw up a plea to the universe, to whatever deity that may or may not exist, begging for this to be a one-off bad day and not an omen for what was to come. 

As usual, Crowley’s prayers seemed to fall on deaf ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonding over a mutual hatred is the best way to make friends, promise  
> i also know nothing about being a tattoo artist


	2. September

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was hoping to update sooner than this but every time i went to edit this chapter, it got longer and longer and now we're here lol  
> this is horrifically unbetaed, please don't judge me

Crowley had a better idea of what he was walking into for the next PTA meeting however, it only made his dread worse. While the dread was much preferable to nervous anticipation, he still didn’t want to be here. He took pains to be fashionably late in hopes of avoiding awkward small talk or another ambush by Karen. 

No such luck. 

He walked in to find Karen poised at the door, ready to pounce. “Mr. Crowley! I’m so glad I caught you.” She said as if she hadn’t been waiting for him. 

Great, just great. This woman needed a hobby or a really good fuck. “Hello, Karen,” Crowley said, trying to keep the disdain out of his voice. He definitely failed. He wasn’t great at acting; he didn’t care enough to fake it. Karen was a walking nightmare and he didn’t see why he needed to pretend otherwise. In his mind, they didn’t have to get along in order to fill their respective roles in the PTA group, but Karen seemed to think otherwise. 

“We’re just about to start,” she said, a slight scold in her tone. “But I didn’t receive your paperwork at the last meeting! I don’t have any way of contacting you!” 

He’d very much prefer that this damn woman never contact him. It wasn’t exactly an accident that he’d disappeared before she could find him after the last meeting. “Oh? Must have forgotten it,” Crowley answered, with a smile. “Shall we talk about it later? I think Mrs. Michaels--”

“I’ll take it now if you please,” Karen cut him off. “Wouldn’t want to put it off any longer,” She smiled, a little too forced and he could feel the accusation in it. Fuck. 

“Right, I’m afraid I left it at home--”

“Here’s a new copy and a pen,” She said, practically pulling it out of thin air. Damn it she was good. 

He glanced down at the papers in his hand, scrambling for an out. He just wanted to show up, feign support, maybe volunteer a time or two so he was a good parent and get on with his life. He didn’t have the time or energy for messages from Karen. 

“Go on then,” Karen said. “I’ll collect these after the meeting,” She promised and it felt vaguely threatening, an unspoken note of ‘If you try to sneak out afterwards I will slash your tires,’ kind of threatening. She turned on her heel and walked away and Crowley looked around, helpless and desperate. The few people who would meet his eye offered him understanding and sympathy. He was definitely not the first parent to get caught in Karen’s crosshairs. He saw Aziraphale standing by the drinks table, watching him and close enough to have heard everything. Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled with mirth and Crowley scowled at him. He was positively reveling in Crowley’s pain, the wanker. Crowley pointedly ignored the hypocrisy of the fact that he would do the same if he saw Aziraphale being berated by Karen. 

That was different. 

Crowley threw himself down in a chair at the back, scribbling on the paper and hoping his handwriting was bad enough that Karen couldn’t read it. That was his only prayer. He half listened to the start of the meeting, the same format as before as each of the leaders of their little division took their turn at the microphone, trying to make their PTA meeting far more official and important than it really was. What could have possibly happened between the meeting last month and today that required a formal report from the entire PTA board? 

The answer was, apparently, _a lot_. 

“Now don’t forget about the bakesale coming up!” Karen said, her grating voice pulling Crowley back into the present moment. “I expect full participation. There’s so much to be done and it’s a very important fundraiser for our events coming up later in the school year. There’s a sign-up sheet in the back and only a few blanks left to be filled,” Crowley could feel her eyes on him again. 

Fuck… he hadn’t signed up for anything. 

“I’m still looking for a parent to take the lead on this, remember this group is about involvement; I can’t always do everything,” She laughed into the mic, the sound shrill and grating before it was drowned out by the high-pitched shriek of competing electronics getting too close to each other. 

He noticed a few other parents squirming in their seats, apparently he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t signed up and none of them wanted to be stuck with heading up the whole goddamn thing. His knee bounced with pent up energy as he waited for the meeting to end. 

Karen droned on about the bake sale a bit more and then read through the agenda for the next few months… something called Trunk or Treating was coming up, whatever the fuck that was, and Thanksgiving and a play? Obviously some horribly white-washed version of the Mayflower that would make him want to burn the place to the ground… maybe he should just pick up a few more customers and start donating money instead of coming to this charade. If only it were that simple.

As soon as the meeting adjourned, Crowley, along with all the other slacker parents, made a beeline for the signup sheet. Despite his long legs, there were other parents more terrified than himself and beat him to it. Thankfully however, he wasn’t last in line, He glanced over his shoulder and grinned when he saw Aziraphale behind him. The line crept up and when Crowley grabbed the pen he saw exactly two empty slots:

**Chief Organizer and Leadership Liason for the Fall Bake Sale**

**Cupcakes, 6 dozen - no peanuts or other common allergens!**

Of course all the easy things like cookies or brownies were long gone. Sure, cupcakes were easy enough to make but they were a nightmare to transport. As much as he didn’t want to make six dozen cupcakes, he really wanted to stick Aziraphale with the worst job of the whole event. Call it karma for laughing at Crowley’s pain earlier. He jotted his name down with unnecessary flourish and smirked as he passed the pen back to Aziraphale. “Bad luck, mate,” He said, trying and failing to hide his glee. 

Aziraphale blink, looked down at the sheet and his whole face fell. Crowley was practically whistling to himself as he skipped off. If it had been anyone else, he’d have felt genuinely bad for them. Not bad enough to give up his cupcake slot however, he wasn’t a goddamn saint or anything, but he wouldn’t have basked in their misfortune quite as much. But it wasn’t just anyone, it was Aziraphale and he didn’t have to feel bad about reveling in his pain. Crowley threw his papers at Karen and headed out the door. He wanted to end this meeting on a high and he knew sticking around would only bring him down. 

In the grand scheme of things, baking a ridiculous amount of cupcakes was a small price to pay for seeing Aziraphale miserable. 

~~~

Crowley and Warlock had established a well worn school routine at this point. It was easy enough to drop him off at school in the mornings, Crowley didn’t have to be at the shop until much later. The logistical nightmare was picking him up. Despite their apartment’s proximity to the school, the bus ride took a convoluted route, zigzagging through suburban neighborhoods for nearly an hour before looping back towards their street. Despite all his ‘cool dad’ talk, he would never ever let Warlock walk, so he had to make time to pick him up from school every day. 

On days he had a tattoo appointment in the afternoon, he’d usually bring Warlock along, making him do his homework in the sketch room or otherwise occupy himself while keeping out of the way. Warlock was no stranger to tattoo shops and thankfully the other artists didn’t seem to mind him being underfoot. Eve seemed to have a bottomless snack drawer and Anathema had an entire shelf of some new-age magazines that Warlock was endlessly entertained by. But Erik, being the youngest in the shop, seemed to be Warlock’s favorite. It was cute how much Warlock seemed to look up to the kid, his heavy makeup and crazy hair being the epitome of cool. Erik was a pretty good sport about it, entertaining Warlock with tattoo stories and lengthy monologues about ink types and occasionally conning Warlock into helping clean the shop. 

Crowley had a harder time reading Hastur and Ligur. They were thick as thieves but kept to themselves mostly. They didn’t seem to notice or care when Warlock was underfoot and they definitely seemed like the type to speak up if they had an issue so Crowley was pretty sure they were okay about it. They were gruff and unwelcoming, much like his old coworkers, but they didn’t seem to have the same malicious edge to them. Over the past few weeks of Crowley working there however, they were starting to warm up to him, if only a little. 

The group dinner Eve planned had been surprisingly nice. They were an eclectic group of individuals who didn’t seem to have anything in common besides tattooing however, once the drinks started flowing, they all seemed to become friends. Anathema and Ligur had delved into a deep conversation about the importance and symbolism of frogs in the occult while Hastur was busy telling a disgusted Erik all about taxidermy, apparently a hobby of his, and Eve had pulled Crowley into a conversation about her husband, Adam, and their truly ridiculous amount of pets. It had actually been rather fun and Crowley felt a little more comfortable and settled in afterwards. 

Crowley had finished up with his appointments for the day and rushed out the door so he could wait in line with all the other cars at the school to pick up Warlock. The car slowly crept towards the entrance until Warlock came out, flopping down in the passenger's seat with a huff. 

Crowley rolled his eyes, carefully avoiding minivans and children until he was back out on the road. “So… how was school?” He asked. It was a bit of a routine at this point, Crowley asking the same obvious questions and Warlock responding in caveman grunts rather than words. It was all very rehearsed and predictable.

Warlock huffed again. 

“So just as great as yesterday then?” Crowley sighed. They were only a month in but it had not been a smooth transition so far. Warlock didn’t want to talk about it, but Crowley didn’t think he’d made a single friend at his new school and every day he seemed to be more and more dejected. It was another thing that fell into the box of ‘out of Crowley’s control to fix’, a box that only seemed to grow with Warlock, and it was a distressing and difficult reality for Crowley to grapple with.

“Do I have stupid hair?” Warlock asked. 

Crowley knew better than to laugh. “I don’t think so?”

“Do I dress like a nerd?” 

“Half your clothes you stole from me so… no.” 

“Do I smell? You would tell me if I smelled, right?” 

“You don’t smell,” Crowley assured him.

“Then what the fuck am I doing wrong?” Warlock pulled his legs up against his chest and rested his chin on his knees, staring out the window, his mind miles away.

Rather than being a good parent who chastised him about his language or the unsafe seating position in a moving vehicle, Crowley just sighed and turned down a different road, it was obvious that Warlock needed some comfort food right now. “What happened?” 

The silence settled over them, safe and familiar. He let Warlock organize his thoughts and filter through what he wanted to share. The seconds stretched into minutes before Warlock finally spoke up, his voice muffled by his position. “Just some jackass in my PE class…” 

“I’m going to need a bit more than that,” Crowley pressed but his voice was gentle. He’d always strived to be someone that Warlock could talk to, no bullshit, no punishments. No matter what, he wanted Warlock to be comfortable telling him things. That was far more important to him than any stupid or possibly illegal thing Warlock would ever do. 

“Gabe. Jock. Asshole. Enjoys punching things and probably drowning kittens. He’s been-- he doesn’t like me.” 

Crowley flinched at the matter of fact tone. He felt something raw and primal clawing up his throat. How dare some little shit thirteen year old even think about hurting his son? He had to consciously even his breathing, not letting his own emotions cloud the issue. “Doesn’t like you meaning what exactly? If you’re being bullied then we can talk to your teachers and…”

“No. It’ll just make it worse,” Warlock’s eyes widened in fear and he suddenly reminded Crowley of a cornered animal. Crowley immediately backed off when all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around Warlock and protect him. It had been so easy when he was little and a hug could make everything better. Crowley slayed monsters and fixed owies so easily when Warlock was a child. Now it seemed that everything was outside of his control. 

“Will you please tell me what happened?” Crowley asked, his voice gentle as he tried to coax the full story out of Warlock. 

“He’s in my PE class and started teasing me because I didn’t want to play basketball. I thought that was it but now he just… picks at everything. He stole my tee shirt today, tossing it back and forth with some other dickwads in the locker room and made me late to my class. And he…” Warlock paused, his voice wavering. “He started a rumor that you’re in the mob? And a drug dealer?”

Under any other circumstances, the idea that anyone thought Crowley’s scrawny ass was a mobster would be hysterical. He’d be rather proud actually, it was amazing what a few tattoos and an unpleasant demeanor could do. However, some kid using Crowley to upset Warlock was really not cool. “Anything else?” 

“No I just-- the other kids don’t want to talk to me because they might get on Gabe’s bad side too...” Warlock trailed off, picking at a loose thread on the knee of his jeans. Crowley’s chest ached, Warlock looked so small and helpless. The world was a cruel place and middle school only made things harder. He felt another stab of red hot guilt for moving them here, for ripping Warlock away from what was familiar. 

“Okay here is what we’re going to do,” Crowley said, putting more confidence in his voice that he felt. Why weren’t there parenting classes on this shit? Any idiot can learn to change a diaper, what parents really needed was help with situations like this. “I am going to talk to the school. Don’t give me that look, that’s the first step,” Crowley said, holding up a finger to halt Warlock’s protest. “We both know that won’t fix anything, but we need it documented in writing that we tried.”

“Okay?” Warlock said. 

“And then we will use my mob connections to put a hit on this little shit,” Crowley said.

Warlock rolled his eyes, “Be serious, dad!” 

“I am. You think I don’t know people? I could make one stupid little teenager disappear if I wanted to,” Crowley said, trying to supress his laughter. 

Warlock smiled, “Sure, sure.” 

“How do you want me to handle it?” Crowley asked. “Because keeping your head down and doing nothing is not going to make this stop. It will continue to escalate.” 

Warlock sighed, “I don’t know.” 

“That’s okay, kid,” Crowley gave him a reassuring smile. “You’re not supposed to have it all figured out at thirteen. I think this is one thing you are going to have to trust me on. We can’t not do anything. That doesn’t work. Let me talk to the principal. At the very least we can try to get your schedule shuffled around, get you in a different PE class or something, okay?”

“Okay,” Warlock said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“And Warlock… I am going on record to say that I give you permission to kick his ass,” Crowley said. 

Warlock rolled his eyes, “What?” 

“Bullies are bullies because no one stands up to them. I don’t care if he’s bigger or athletic or whatever… one pop to the nose and he’ll start crying, guaranteed.”

“I don’t think that will work.” 

“Okay, should we really hire someone to jump him? Your Aunt Bee probably knows some people.” Warlock chuckled at that. “I’m serious, you know? I don’t care how much trouble you get in at school for it. If you get in a fight with this kid, you fight like hell, you hear me? You may be little but you’re a Crowley. You’re a scrappy little shit. And I've got your back. One hundred percent. I don’t care about consequences as long as you are safe. And getting kicked out can only help your reputation… just saying. Ananthama is like a blackbelt or something. I’ll have her teach you some moves.” 

Warlock smiled. Crowley could tell he wasn’t okay yet, but he was less tense than before. Maybe that was all Crowley could hope for. He wished that he could take every bad thing in Warlock’s life and fix it, make it okay for him. If only parenting were that simple. Instead it was this awful, messy process of letting his kid experience life and pain and struggle through problems on his own. 

It sucked. 

But talking to teachers and principals and holding them accountable? That was something Crowley could do. He knew it wouldn’t fix the problem, not really. The system was fundamentally flawed, school systems cared more about attendance numbers and football games than they did about the vulnerable kids in their care but he had to try; he had to actively do something. It was all he could do. 

~~~

“Wicked,” Hastur nodded his approval as he looked over the stencil in Crowley’s hand. 

“Thanks,” Crowley tried not to shy away from the compliment. He was still getting used to the new shop and his new coworkers. The overwhelming positivity and affirmation was an adjustment, but a welcome one. The mammoth skull stencil he was putting the final touches on _was_ pretty wicked. It was a thigh piece, huge and detailed and he was itching to get started. 

Eve had done a bang up job of promoting him as a new artist in the area, his inbox had been flooded with potential clients before he’d even moved to the area. He’d been able to hit the ground running, getting easier clients booked early and getting appointments set up for the future so his bank account didn’t take too much of a hit during the transition. He felt like he was finally settling into a groove here, getting to know his fellow artists and getting a better feel for how their little hive operated. 

With the exception of one small flash piece, he’d spent the better part of his morning on this drawing before getting his station set up for the appointment. The client arrived right on time, looking more exciting than nervous which was always a good sign. 

The routine was well worn and comfortable as he prepped her for the session, carefully shaving the spot on her leg and setting the stencil over and over until they were both happy with the size and placement. Those were the boring bits. The real fun was when he finally had his gun in hand, the buzz of the motor was soothing, and the repetitive motion of drawing a careful line and wiping away the excess ink and blood helped him sink into a zen-like headspace. He loved watching it take shape, lines forming into a design and layers of shading bring the piece to life. 

It was a large piece and would take multiple sessions to complete but she sat like an absolute rock which let him make more progress than he’d anticipated. He almost didn’t realize how much time they’d already spent, he had been so immersed in the work he barely felt the hours flitting by. 

He definitely noticed it when he stopped though, his back screaming in discomfort and the buzzing of the machine leaving his hands feeling tingly. He felt the beginnings of a headache, the level of concentration combined with his bad habit of squinting as he studied all the little details made it a common occurrence for him. It was nearing time to go pick up Warlock anyway so he worked until he came to a good stopping place in the piece before meticulously washing it and wrapping it up for her trip home. Once payment and scheduling of the next session was done, he sent her on her way with a copy of his standard care instructions.

However, he still had plenty of work to do after she left, packing up all the inks and tools and cleaning everything and sanitizing his entire station. It was more of the not fun but extremely necessary part of his job. She had been his last client so he was able to pack everything away once it was cleaned. 

Through trial and error, Crowley had learned to end his workday by preparing for the following day. He took a few minutes to review the clients he had scheduled, double check for any last minute communication from them and make a plan for any sketching he needed to complete before they arrived. He’d been in the business awhile and the biggest difference he saw between mediocre tattooers and genuine artists was the level of care and diligence they put into their work. Each piece, big or small, was a unique piece of art and each client was putting immense trust into him. He tried to treat that trust with respect and give each client a positive experience. The easiest way to make that happen was to put in the time for each and every piece, to be prepared and do his best work. 

Once he’d backed up his tools, he was able to take a moment to himself. He pulled out his phone and frowned. He had twelve missed calls and five voicemails from the same number. 

What the hell? 

His phone, perpetually on vibrate, was usually left in his coat pocket. He didn’t like having distractions around when he was working. He usually gave out the shop number for emergencies, a much quicker and more efficient way of reaching him than his cell phone. That didn’t stop his parental spidey senses from spiking to lethal levels though because the only logical explanation for so many phone calls was that something had happened to Warlock. 

He opened up his voicemail, fingers tapping his stress against his thigh as the automated voice droned on with the details until it finally got to the actual message. 

“Crowley, this is Aziraphale Fell from the PTA group. As you well know, I’m in charge of the bake sale tomorrow and--” Crowley rolled his eyes, not an issue with Warlock then. Any relief he felt was replaced with annoyance just at hearing Aziraphale’s voice. He skipped to the next message. 

“Crowley, Aziraphale Fell again. I forgot to mention that set up time for those providing the baked goods--” Crowley skipped to the next message again. 

“Crowley, this is Aziraphale Fell. It seems my previous messages did not express the time sensitivity of your response--” Skip. 

“Crowley. This is Aziraphale, _again_. Honestly, this is just petty. Even for you.” Skip.

“Crowley. Aziraphale, again. My apologies for my terse message before. However, my point still stands--” 

Was he for real? Crowley hadn’t answered in six hours _during the workday_ and he was being bombarded with voicemails? Jesus Christ this guy needed a valium. 

The bake sale was tomorrow morning, Crowley knew that. He knew what time to be there and he knew what he was supposed to bring. What was the fucking problem? Before he could even think about how to respond (the truly petty part of him wanted to intentionally ignore the messages now) his phone started ringing once again, the same number.

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

“Oh… Crowley. It’s Aziraphale Fell.” 

“No shit,” Crowley snapped. “You only called me twenty-thousand times today. I do have a job you know?” 

“I-- my apologies for the inconvenience,” Aziraphale said, his voice stiff and posh and _so_ annoying. “However, it really is dreadfully important that we discuss the bake sale tomorrow.” 

“I will be there tomorrow, at nine am, with six dozen cupcakes. What the fuck do we have to talk about?” Crowley snapped. He might have tried to be a bit nicer if he hadn’t just finished a four hour session to find five shitty voicemails from his least favorite person waiting for him. 

“I-- I wanted to ensure that everything was still on schedule. If you are struggling to fulfill this commitment, Karen is, of course, bringing extras in case--” 

“Oh, I see,” Crowley’s voice switched from annoyed to royally pissed off. “You all think I'm going to flake.”

“Of course not! I--” 

“Save it,” Crowley snapped. “I don’t need Karen to pick up my slack. I said I’d bring cupcakes and I’ll bring fucking cupcakes. I will unfortunately see you tomorrow. If I see your number on my phone one more time, I'm calling the police. This has got to constitute harassment or stalking or something. I am at work! Fucking hell…” 

“Now really,” Aziraphale’s tone, waspish. “That is totally uncalled for--” Crowley smashed the end call button, scowling at the device in his hand. 

He resented the assumption that he couldn’t be counted on. These people didn’t know shit about him. He had done absolutely nothing to warrant their conviction that he was going to flake out on his responsibilities but that was par for the course. It was hardly the first time someone had made some stereotypical assumption about him all because of how he looked. 

It couldn’t be farther from the truth however, he’d prepped all his ingredients last night, butter softening on the counter at that very moment. But of course, that wasn’t what anyone saw when they looked at Crowely. No… at best they expected him to swing by the grocery store and buy cupcakes to resell. They couldn’t possibly believe he’d made his grandma’s recipe from scratch. 

Fuckers. 

“Everything alright?” Anathema asked, a knowing smile quirked on her lips. 

“Just peachy,” Crowley growled, throwing himself back into cleaning his station, maybe sanitizing would work out a bit of his aggression. 

~~~

Crowley was still a bit testy about the whole bake sale/Aziraphale situation when he came to pick up Warlock. He really didn’t care for people jumping to conclusions without giving him a chance to prove himself. 

Some of his annoyance melted away when Warlock came into view however. He put up with all this bullshit for Warlock and it was all worth it. “Hey kiddo,” He said as Warlock dumped his bag on the floorboards and dropped into the seat. 

“My history teacher assigned a six page paper.” 

Crowley tried not to laugh. Six whole pages, and probably double spaced, too. The poor baby. “What’s it on?” 

“The Spanish Inquisition,” Warlock groaned. 

“Do you need help with it? Or do you just need to whine?” 

“I can do it myself,” Warlock sighed. 

“Well I’ll pour you some grape juice in a wine glass and you can feel like a real adult while you work on it,” Crowley promised with a laugh. “Also, we have to make all those cupcakes tonight for the bake sale. Mr. Fell,” Crowley practically spit the name. “Has called me no less than thirteen times today to follow up about it. Apparently I am not trustworthy in his opinion.” 

It was Warlock’s turn to laugh. “Do you need help with it? Or do _you_ just need to whine?” 

“Cheek,” Crowley gasped but he couldn’t help but chuckle. “I need help with it, of course! And I’ll need a glass of not-grape juice to get through it.” 

“Do we have to go to the bake sale?” Warlock asked. 

“We have to show up to give them the cupcakes but I am not lifting a damn finger beyond that,” Crowley answered. He was not exactly feeling charitable towards Karen or Aziraphale at the moment. 

“Cool. Can we go to the swimming pool after?” 

“Let me get this straight, you want me to feed you all kinds of baked goods and then take you to a pool?”

“Please?” Warlock begged.

“I’ll think about it,” Crowley finally relented but he knew he couldn’t say no. Anything that would give Warlock a moment of happiness was something Crowley would jump on at this point. Warlock needed friends and he needed them badly. Life was easier when he was younger and Crowley could just invite his entire class to events and parties. That wasn’t cool or acceptable in middle school. “You do have to help me with the cupcakes tonight though. You know I’m shit about remembering to set the timer.” 

“Did you buy enough stuff to make extra batter?”

“No? Why would I?” 

“For when you inevitably burn half of them,” Warlock said with a laugh.

“Hey now,” Crowley frowned. “I’m not that bad.” 

“Do I need to remind you about my ninth birthday?” Warlock sniped, cocking his eyebrow exactly like Crowley himself did and it was infuriating. 

“Excuse you? Your mother was responsible for that one!” Crowley said with mock indignation. 

“Even I know better than to trust her around an oven,” Warlock said. 

“I don’t like this attitude,” Crowley grumbled. He used to win these arguments. When did it all change?

“Mom says I get it from you.” 

“I _really_ don’t like this attitude.” 

“Be the change you wish to see in the world,” Warlock smiled. 

“Oh shut up,” Crowley snorted out a laugh. He pulled into his usual parking space and Warlock ran ahead to unlock the door. 

“What’s for dinner?” 

“Leftovers and cupcakes,” Crowley answered. Warlock wrinkled his nose but knew better than to complain. “Go get cleaned up and do your homework or something, I’ll yell when the food is ready.” Crowley kicked off his shoes at the front door, puttering around the house in just his socks. 

When Warlock was little, he loved picking out silly socks for Crowley to wear. Somewhere along the line the habit had stuck. He didn’t even know if he owned solid white or black socks anymore but he had a whole drawer full of colorful stripes and polka dots. Today was a purple pair with little green aliens on them. He loved how ridiculous it made him look, especially against his whole black on black aesthetic. More than anything he loved that it was a little secret for just him and Warlock. It reminded him of simpler times and it was a small piece of Warlock’s childhood he could cling to, that he could keep with him. 

He pulled out some leftover lasagna and popped it in the oven to warm up while he tried to find something that passed as a vegetable. He took the time to clean up the kitchen, washing the dishes and wiping down the counters so it would be ready to be destroyed later that night as they baked a million cupcakes. He only owned two baking trays so… this would be interesting. 

Warlock grabbed the laptop, setting himself up at the kitchen table and pecking at his phone more so than the computer. Crowley set a glass of grape juice in front of him, in a wine glass as promised and Warlock rolled his eyes but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“When is it due?” Crowley asked as he puttered around the kitchen, pre-heating the oven and throwing a bag of frozen peas in the sink to defrost under the running water.

“Monday.” 

Crowley wrinkled his nose, he hated teachers who assigned homework over the weekend. He’d hated it as a student and more so now as a parent. “Well thanks for not waiting until Sunday night.”

“I figured you wouldn’t let me go swimming if I didn’t finish it.” 

“You figured right,” Crowley laughed. He knew he took it for granted what a good kid Warlock was. Sure they bickered plenty but at the end of the day, Warlock knew to talk to him about the big stuff and he seemed to manage himself just fine when it came to school. He couldn’t complain.

It was a comfortable, domestic feeling as Crowley fixed dinner, the lasagna filling the house with the smell of stewed tomatoes and oregano. Warlock seemed to be making good progress on his paper, at the very least Crowley could see multiple lines on the document, some might even call them full paragraphs. 

Once the food was done, they ate dinner quickly. It would take most of the evening to get all the cupcakes baked and the sooner they started the sooner they could be finished. 

“What kind of cupcakes are we making?” 

“Half chocolate and half vanilla,” Crowley answered. “And then chocolate and vanilla frosting so technically four varieties when we’re all done.” 

“That seems overkill,” Warlock said but he was already putting away the laptop and rolling up his sleeves. 

“Right,” Crowley said, hands on his hips as he looked at their pitiful workspace. It was a nice enough apartment but the kitchen left a lot to be desired. “Vanilla first so we don’t have to clean out the bowls. If you want to measure out the ingredients, I’ll put these guns to use and beat the ever loving shit outta this butter.” 

Warlock snorted, “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

“Hush.” 

Together they managed to mix up a huge batch of vanilla cake batter, only short a few (or seven) spoonfuls - no better quality control test - and only half the counter was covered in flour and stickiness. “Set the timer for fifteen minutes,” Crowley said, squinting at the recipe card. “Then we gotta flip racks. Now we get a break, a small one, until we bake enough of these to have a free bowl.”

“You really need to buy a mixer if you’re going to volunteer for bake sales,” Warlock grumbled. 

“Yeah, yeah. It was cupcakes or be the ‘bake sale liaison’ or some shit, which is adult code for Karen’s whipping boy. I’m quite happy to bake cupcakes, thank you very much. Mr. Fell got stuck being the whipping boy.”

“Why do you hate Mr. Fell so much?” Warlock asked, scraping some batter off the side of the bowl with his spoon.

Crowley’s nose wrinkled, he wasn’t about to tell Warlock the truth about that, that kid had enough problems to deal with. He did feel the tiniest twinge of guilt for talking about other parents in front of his kid. That probably fell into the bucket of bad parenting. “I do not hate Mr. Fell. I just don’t like him and enjoy the simple justice that karma provides.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Warlock rolled his eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It just kinda sounds like another instance of you being, well... you,” Warlock said, squirming. 

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“You just… have a tendency to overreact sometimes.” 

“I have never overreacted in my life.” 

Warlock snorted. “Kindergarten. Neighborhood barbecue. Greasy Johnson’s dad.” 

“Okay well… fine. I might have overrated that time,” Crowley conceded. “But in my defence, Greasy Johnson’s dad was a twat.” 

“If you say so.” 

“Fine, I overreacted.” 

“Did you overreact with Mr. Fell?” 

Crowley was really starting to hate this ‘I’m a person with my own thoughts and opinions’ stage of growing up. It had started alarmingly early and didn’t seem to be slowing down. “I am your father and you have a moral obligation to side with me on this, but I guess, I can be the bigger person and consider the possibility that I might have, maybe, contributed to the mutual dislike that exists between myself and Mr. Fell.” 

“How big of you.” 

“Don’t push it,” Crowley gave him the stink eye but Warlock just laughed at him. Crowley was saved by the timer, ending the Mr. Fell conversation entirely as they got back to their cupcakes. 

They found a good rhythm, Warlock manning the timer and oven while Crowley made the next batch of batter. Then it became a juggling act of finding places to put the cooling cupcakes. Once they started to cool, the frosting began. 

Crowley didn’t ask about school and Warlock smiled and laughed like he used to. By the end of the night, they had exactly six dozen cupcakes packed away, any ugly mangled cupcakes that didn’t make the cut had been consumed almost immediately. They both went to bed feeling sick from eating too much sugar but Crowley still went to bed happy. Spending a Friday night baking with his kid was way better than any wild night out he’d ever had. Or maybe he was just old and a sap who really liked his kid. Maybe. 

~~~

“This sucks,” Warlock grumbled as he climbed into the car. Crowley placed the last of the repurposed delivery boxes, now full of individually packaged cupcakes for the bake sale, into the back seat. 

“It would suck a lot more if we actually had to stay for the event,” Crowley reminded him. 

“True.” 

“Now buck up, we just have to drop these off. Maybe buy some of the good stuff before the sale starts and then we can leave.”

“And go to the pool?” Warlock asked, his voice so full of hope it was like a knife to the chest. 

Crowley slid into the driver’s seat. “Then, if you don’t eat too much candy or whatever, we can maybe, possibly go to the pool. I don’t want you hurling. That would be embarrassing.” 

“Yes,” Warlock cheered, his smile was carefree and easy for once and Crowley couldn’t find it in himself to regret his decision. He tucked away the memory of Warlock’s smile, it was becoming increasingly rare these days, part of the reality of raising a teenager but it was more than that. He knew all too well how easy it could be to slip into a depressive state, how quickly a person could deteriorate when they felt isolated and alone. He could feel Warlock slipping through his fingers and he couldn’t seem to do a damn thing about it. Warlock didn’t need a stronger parental presence in his life, he needed friends. He needed people his own age to talk to and bond with.

Crowley would be scheduling a meeting with the principal immediately. He needed to sort out this bullying issue sooner rather than later. If he could just keep Warlock away from this Gabe kid, maybe it would be enough to remove the target on Warlock’s back that was making all the other kids shy away. 

The bake sale was being held at a local grocery store, the parking lot already bustling despite the early hour. There were signs and posters announcing the sale as they pulled in, making Crowley want to roll his eyes. Thank fuck they didn’t have to do anything beyond dropping off the goods. 

“Come on, kid. Grab a box,” Crowley said as he pulled into a parking spot. They carefully carried in their cupcakes inside,. The entryway was lined with tables and Karen was buzzing around like a hornet, completely in her element, and a very frazzled Aziraphale in an honest-to-god waistcoat was seated by a cash box. 

“Crowley! Right on time!” Karen ambushed him immediately. “Oh they look wonderful! Talk to Aziraphale, he’s in charge of the layout for today.” 

Crowley set his box down none-too gently on the table next to Aziraphale, making him jump. “Where should I put these?” 

Aziraphale frowned at him, “Right where you dropped them is perfectly adequate, I suppose.” 

Crowley tried not to roll his eyes. “Quite the set up you’re in charge of.” 

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed. 

“Am I really the first one here?”

“I’m afraid so. I called everyone and reminded them-” 

“Ahh… well if it was anything like the calls I got, that would explain why no one else showed up,” Crowley didn’t try terribly hard to keep the edge out of his tone. 

“That’s not funny,” Aziraphale frowned. “If you hadn’t ignored me, perhaps I would not have been forced to be so… persistent.”

Crowley looked over at Warlock, trying to convey a very profound sense of _I told you so_. “Warlock, can you go grab the last box from the car?” Warlock nodded, taking the keys and heading back outside. Once he was out of earshot, Crowley turned back to Aziraphale with a frown. “You know, I was trying to be polite. At least put on a good show in front of my kid but you make it really difficult.” 

“If that is you attempt at being polite, I shudder to think what you consider rude.” Aziraphale’s tone was stiff, propped up on pillars of self-righteous indignation. 

“Well,” Crowley put a patronizing smile on his face as Warlock came through the door with the last box. “That’s my part of this bakesale done with. Good luck today, Mr. Bake Sale Liaison. I’m sure it will be a lovely, productive day of baked goods and bonding time with Karen.” 

“So childish,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath but pasted on a false smile as Warlock came back in and set down the last box.

“Ciao.” Crowley felt a little too much satisfaction as he walked away. “Come on Warlock, let’s swing by the house and get our swim trunks.” 

Warlock whooped, and bound off towards the car. It was turning out to be a good day and Crowley had some pep in his step as he followed along behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> would anyone be interested in beta reading this story for me????? 
> 
> Pro:  
> you get the read the updates first  
> you get to laugh at my ridiculous typos  
> i'll love you forever 
> 
> Con:  
> i'm a hot mess  
> i once had a teacher simply write "bad" instead of giving me a grade on a grammar assignment. nothing has changed since then.


End file.
